Broken Throne
by Waterscape
Summary: Not all of Irisviel died. Under Excalibur's radiance, she makes a wish, and changes Fate itself.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Nasu-verse. Sadly.**

 **Genre: Adventure, Angst, Romance and Drama.**

 **Pairings: Uncertain. Honestly, don't mind writing anything, so if you want to see a pairing - either Het/Slash/FemSlash - just say it.**

 **Warning: This is just a pilot chapter - I am uncertain as to whether or not I should continue this. This was written to try and get me in the mood for writing other things, so it's all unplanned, and I have no plans of actually continuing this properly. If people want to see more of this, then I don't mind continuing it, updates will just be a bit strange. Also, short prologue is short, future chapters will be 4000+...and this is unbeta'd.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy the prologue.**

* * *

The Holy Grail was dying.

It was a fact. The device held little care over its own survival, the little sentience it had gathered over the years already drifting off, comforted by the radiance of Excalibur. It was happy (no, that wasn't quite the right word – perhaps _apathetic_ would be more precise) to disappear, to fade from this world, for it could not understand death. It was a tool to be used by man, to grant their one true wish, and if there was no longer any need for it then it would accept its own destruction.

No, perhaps it would be wrong to say _dying_. It wasn't alive, it wasn't capable of thinking or breathing. It may look into the hearts and minds of humans, draw parallels and correlations and similarities in order to gift them with a servant. But concepts like life and death were alien to it, alongside emotions and thoughts and feelings – everything that makes up _sapience_ was absent.

Under the guiding light of Excalibur, the Holy Grail would have peacefully drifted off, disintegrating under the soft rays.

But something didn't want it to die. Something wanted to live on, to fester, to hate- _hate-_ _ **hate**_. Angra Mainyu, a spirit that had latched onto its form so long ago, that lingered and hated and _wished,_ wanted to survive. And as long as something wished, the Holy Grail would continue to survive.

Angra Mainyu wanted to be brought out into the world, but was so very _scared_ of it. It was anathema to it; 'All the World's Evils' could not truly understand Gaia, nor did it know Alaya. Humanity's ability to both loathe and love confused it, confounded it, _broke_ it. So no matter how hard it wished to be free, to wreak havoc on the world it needed someone to truly understand it to let it free.

The Grail was neither benevolent, nor malevolent. It could not understand this fear, nor could it understand the idea of _hate_ and _love._ It was the very epitome of apathy, and thus, Angra Mainyu's desire was denied by the very Grail itself.

It was not tainted enough to support All The World's Evils.

Yet Angra Mainyu was not the sole spirit ensconced within the Grail. Irisviel, or at the very least what was left of her will, remained – brought out by the overwhelming purity of Excalibur's light.

She had loved. She had loved so deeply and truly that, in her heart of hearts, she had one _true_ wish. A wish that, unlike the chaotic desires of a truly _evil_ spirit, it could understand. In the end, all she wanted was for Kiritsugu to be happy. She wanted him to accomplish his dream, to be a hero, to wipe out all evil in the world so that everyone can be happy.

Irisviel sacrificed herself for her love, the man that she let kill her, so that he can be happy.

And whilst it may not truly understand emotion – in fact, the only thing that it could understand was the transplantation of heroes from the Throne to the physical world – the Holy Grail was made for the sole purpose of crafting a path to Akasha.

Unknown to death, nor known to life.

Unaware of loss, nor aware of gain.

It held very little care; or rather, it wasn't created to be interested in the affairs of the outside world. It held one purpose, and one purpose only.

To successfully grant a wish, and open the doors to Akasha.

Irisviel had a wish. A wish that was written in her heart, body and soul. A wish that, in the end, aligned perfectly with the Grail's purpose.

 _I wish that you can be a hero, just as you were to me._

And in that moment, in a baptism of incandescent flame, a pathway to Akasha was created. Humanity's strongest, the souls of the heroes who died, were little more than fuel for a fire; the grail _picking_ and _tearing_ and _placing_ as it carefully built the stairway to the Root.

A wish was made. Its purpose fulfilled.

The Holy Grail faded, taking with it the corrupted spirit Angra Mainyu, as it wrote Kiritsugu into the annals of history as a Heroic Spirit.

 _The Magus Killer._

With its purpose complete, it would lay dormant. Sleeping, until the next War took place.

It was just a shame that heroes died young.

Now, all that remained was a pathway to Akasha, to the Throne of Heroes. It was intrinsically tied to the new Hero, to the Magus Killer; he would act as the gateway. He would be all that was required to lead the way to the Root.

* * *

He was burning.

Shirou blinked, once, twice, eyes of liquid amber ( _muted, dulled, lost_ ) reflecting the burning corona of the flames. They flickered, jagged arcs of flames spluttering from the debris, trails of burning death caressing his footsteps as he stumbled through the wasteland.

An odd sense of apathy overtook him them, a detachment born from the will to survive, and despite the very real fact that he was dying ( _slowly, slowly, like a flickering candle – burning and burning and burning_ ) he still walked on. Walked and walked and _walked_.

He ignored the cries for help, the screams for salvation, the gazes of desperation. He ignored the way there eyes watered, the pleas for him to help, for him to drag them out of the fire.

He was burning, and walking, and that was okay. Amidst the cries, the screams, he kept on walking, kept on burning; truly unable to find the strength to stop and help, to try and save anyone. Shirou knew that he should at least _try_ and help them, to _try_ and save them, but he just couldn't find it in himself to care

Something inside of him tells him that he should be disgusted with himself. Why should he be able to walk, when others had their legs crushed? Why should he still breathe, when others choked on the smoke? Why should he live, when they couldn't?

But then again, why should they live, and he not?

It was that thought that kept him moving. As long as he had that drive to live, he could ignore it all. Ignore the pain, ignore the fire, ignore _everything._ He could pretend that he wasn't here, with the fire and the flames and the pain; that he was at home with his parents and his house and his family and his friends.

He was only a child, what could he do? He wasn't strong enough to lift the debris, or fast enough to save everyone. He wasn't smart enough to think his way out, or sturdy enough to live through the flames. He wasn't a hero.

The excuses felt weak even to his own ears, a poor salve for the bitterness and self-loathing.

But he wants to _live._

So he'll walk. And ignore. And survive.

It was as easy as that.

He stumbled, foot caught on jagged rock, and without a sound he tumbled to the ground. Superheated stones dug into his stomach, his ankle ached, his body burned.

And he gave up. He accepted his death. The red-head understood that this was his end, that he wouldn't live to see tomorrow, and under the blanket of flame he felt himself drifting away, as if being lulled to sleep.

The soft _thud-thud_ of boots, the crunching of stone underfoot, was all that kept him from truly drifting off – and when he was encased in a _warmth_ that wasn't _burning_ he craned his neck backwards, staring into watery eyes that were filled with so much happiness that Shirou couldn't help but feel envy.

There was a hero here. He was being saved.

Their eyes met, and something _clicked._

Lights and sounds and images and _forever_ crossed the dying child's mind. Scorching deserts and lush forests and kingdoms and families and battles and war and _everything_ that ever was and ever will be stumbled into his mind, and he was _burning_ all over again.

In that moment, a crimson-haired youth was shown eternity, as he lay drowning in a sea of flame.

He would have died, if it wasn't for the timely intervention of Avalon – the man that he simultaneously envied and adored forcing the Noble Phantasm into his impressionable body. The manifestation of that ever-distant utopia was able to counteract the effects slightly, just enough so that its new host would survive and live.

Nasu Shirou ceased to exist, leaving behind a mother that would never truly recover from the loss of her child and a younger sibling that would never remember him, _memories_ and _feelings_ and _dreams_ escaping through the cracks.

All that would remain was a memory of a man, beaten and bloody, who had a smile that _burnt_ like the sun and a happiness that he would forever adore.

* * *

Shirou woke up, roused by the steady _beeping_ of the nearby machinery.

He was in a hospital room; that much he could gather. Eyes and head heavy, his eyes trailed passed the simple, lacklustre décor – focusing only momentarily on the machines, a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he watched the steady fluctuations of colour, the methodical splash of mint green – before focusing primarily on the pair nearby.

The man – tall, gruff, yet Shirou couldn't help but feel _warm_ at his presence – stared back, eyes blank. He had a strange odour about him, a smell not too dissimilar to fireworks, and to the child he looked strange. Like he didn't really fit in with the rest of the world, like he was different, _wrong._ But still, despite this feeling of _wrong-wrong-wrong_ , he felt safe. So when that man stood up suddenly from his seat, Shirou wasn't afraid.

Kiritsugu was a distorted _not-man_.

"You're awake," it was a simple statement, for a man that was anything but simplistic. "You alright?"

Shirou nodded. He didn't really know what else to do.

"My name is Emiya Kiritsugu," Shirou just blinked, unsure of how to respond. The man, seeing that same blankness, continued on. "What's your name?"

Shirou opened his mouth, as if to reply, only to stop as he tried to remember his name. Unbidden, a name rose to the surface, and regardless of whether or not it was his name he told the man.

"Do you want me to be your father?" Kiritsugu's gaze was heavy, forceful, his words carefully enunciated.

A slight nod, and the child sealed his fate. Though Kiritsugu's outward appearance didn't change, his being a far cry from the man he remembered picking him up, Shirou couldn't help but think he was happy.

"I'll sort the papers." Kiritsugu left in a manner that was far too similar to a predator, stalking out of the room like a panther.

Leaving him in the presence of the woman.

She was slim and slender, nowhere near the size of the broad-shouldered figure of his new father (a strange thought, especially since he couldn't exactly remember his old one), with long, silken hair that tumbled down her back like glossy silver and eyes of deep amethyst. Her beauty, whilst vast, was simply unearthly, and Shirou couldn't help but think that she wasn't human – she was just too perfect.

Her eyebrows, silver like her hair, furrowed – watching after the man with a mixture of fondness and annoyance. Sighing softly, she turned her gaze to the child lying down.

"Hello," Shirou said, voice bland.

The woman paused from her perusal, before pointing towards herself. There was no-one else in the room, not even any nurses, so the red-head had no idea why the woman seemed so shocked that someone was talking to her.

"Hi," the bewildered woman replied, her voice weak. "You can see me?"

"I can," he tilted his head, echoing the rather pensive look she sported before, "is that strange?"

Lips parting, she made to say something. Then stopped, started again, before giving up on it all. Slumping down on her seat, the lady looked defeated; tired, as if she's given up on it all.

Shirou didn't like the memories it brought up.

"What is your name?" It was almost robotic, monotonous. A question that was asked out of propriety's sake, more-so than an actual desire to know about the _fake-human_.

She perked up, suddenly excited. "My name is Irisviel von Einzbern, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

The child made a soft noise of acknowledgement, before falling into silence. Uncomfortable, the newly-named Irisviel fidgeted in her seat, unnerved by the heavy gaze of the boy.

"So," she began, a small smile on her face. "You can see me, hmm?"

She giggled, before continuing, not even bothering to wait for an answer. "Then, I believe that I have a confession to make."

She smirked, a small mirthless thing. Shirou couldn't help but feel like it was wrong on her face, as it didn't belong there. Irisviel should be smiling – like _that man_ – smiling a smile that could outshine the sun, not that small jaded thing.

"I am Irisviel von Einzbern, and…" she took a deep breathe, fortifying herself, "I'm dead."

Short, blunt, and to the point; delivered clinically, as if a simple fact.

Shirou just nodded.

The two of them sat there in silence, listening to the steady beats of the machines, the hushed _tick-tock_ of the clock and the steady _beep-beep_ of one of the machines he was hooked up too. A young, broken doll of a boy, and a young, broken doll of a woman; waiting in silence for their hero.

Hours later, under the twinkling lights of the stars, the newly born Emiya Shirou walked out of the hospital – wedged between the man who dreamed of superheroes and the woman that loved more than she lived.

It was the start of something beautiful.

* * *

 _ **Prologue,**_ **end.**

 **Yes, it's short, but it's a prologue - normal chapters will be 4000+. If I continue it. If you want to see more, just tell me - I don't mind writing this as well as Colosseo. And as always, this is unbeta'd.**

 **So, we have Third Magic! Shirou, Heroic Spirit! Kiritsugu, and ?! Irisviel. And as this involves the Third Magic, expect to see more Heroic Spirits, from all across the Fate/ series - so characters like Rider from Fate/Extra, and other people.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoyed this prologue.**

 **Signed, Waterscape.**


	2. Chapter 1: The Snow Fairy

**Disclaimer: I don't own Nasu-verse. Sadly.**

 **Genre: Adventure, Angst, Romance and Drama. There will be some humour later though: but that'll come after Character Development.**

 **Pairings: Uncertain. Honestly, don't mind writing anything, so if you want to see a pairing - either Het/Slash/FemSlash - just say it. Unless we rolling with Shirou/The World.**

 **Also, I apologise for this being so late, but I've not had much time. Between moving out, looking for a job and preparing for my first year at university I've not had much time for writing. I'll be trying to get back into it, and if I write at least 500 words a day I should have something resembling a chapter every 8/10 days. But, I'm super sorry this is late.**

 **Also, special thanks to Icarus Ascendant for being awesome and helping out with this chapter :D. Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter, and thank you everyone that followed/fav'd/reviewed. I'm surprised that this is so popular, and if I didn't respond to your review let me know.**

* * *

Emotions are like flowers, as flowers are to colours, said the snow fairy to the child.

They can grow under the sun; blossom with all the colours of the rainbow. They can be milky white and empty black, they can be all the colours of the rainbow and none of them at the same time. They can grow and flourish, each one with their own entire spectrum, and with one of her small, wistful smiles the lonely angel tries to describe the indescribable.

Hate would be green. Sickly and corrosive, acidic and painful. It would burn at your heart, melt your bones, eat at you forever. It would be manipulation, and falsity, and the child couldn't help but think she was thinking of someone. The snow fairy was bitter, clutching at the grass with a vice like grip, hands melting through the verdant blades. Hate would be the puppeteer, forever controlling, forever uncaring.

Pride was gold, she said. It was kings and queens on their thrones, conquerors and heroes and knights. It would be expensive wine, in thrones and armies, and in a wish. Pride and Arrogance, whilst not too dissimilar, were different. Arrogance would be silver, mercury and algorithms, stagnant yet fully believing in its own superiority. It would be in the prideful teacher, in the lords and ladies, and for all their differences they often go hand in hand.

Fear is black, she announced, eyes haunted by an unknown shadow. All consuming, an abyss that you could drown in forever. It's in the cowering student, the lonely girl, and fear would feed Desperation. Desperation would be the rotting man, deep purple mixing with fuchsia Devotion, and together they would make up the black knight forever in search of his king.

Anger was orange, like the sun. It would burn, deep and empowering, russet tones and amaryllis flares like fire. It would rage and writhe, twist and turn, fight like the betrayed warrior: flecks of red intertwined in the splash of colour.

It isn't all bad, she laughed, the child's face perturbed. Yellow was happiness, reaching like sunflowers towards the sun: tall and proud and _large._ It would be in the servant and the king, the warlock and the suffering. Everyone feels happy, the snow fairy said, certainty clear in her voice.

Most importantly, Love is blue. Its whirling dresses and flashing swords, eyes that held all the sorrow in the world. Love would be the haunted, the betrayed, and the happy. It would be in freedom and courage, patriotism and war; Love would be _there_ , existing. Love is salvation, the one true healer, and with a soft smile she turns to a wilting skeleton of a man, more lifeless than the dead, and then towards the horizon: at something only the fairy could see.

It's in the sky and the air, and she says that if the child ever should ever forget to look up, to see the wide expanse of azure, and remember.

The child stares blankly, gaze trained on the lazy floating of the clouds, amber eyes like marbles: empty, with only a sliver of something inside to keep it from slipping to machine.

He doesn't remember.

The snow fairy pouts cutely, hands cradled in the hem of her dress.

The boy turns to the doll, frown on his face. He asks her, what about white? There's reds and yellows and blues, black and gold and silver, but there is no white.

Amethyst eyes glinting with _something_ , she smiled, saying nothing.

After a while, she looked at him, and for the first time she questioned.

"What do you think?"

Shirou remained silent.

Under the shroud of midnight, they sat alone together: one staring at the sky, the other gazing towards home.

* * *

 _ **In the end, the child never figured it out. Perhaps it was for the best.**_

* * *

Deep in his bones, Emiya Kiritsugu knew that _something_ was wrong with Shirou.

No, that wasn't _quite_ the right word: he was a man well acquainted with _good_ and _evil,_ and there wasn't anything _wrong_ with Shirou. He wasn't _evil,_ a _villain_ ; there was just something off about him. The young lad acted as well as he could do, keeping in mind his situation, and slowly but surely he was gradually creeping back to a bright, happy child like any other kid his age. It was heart-warming, a strange heat suffusing his heart, a feeling that one can only get when you feel _pride_ over something your child had done.

And _Emiya_ Shirou was his child now, with all the baggage and the weight associated with the name _Emiya_.

Looking after Shirou, however, was a completely alien experience.

It was nothing like with Ilya – _his body ached, his bones ravaged by the curse_ – who was all happy laughs and gleeful smiles, staring at the world with glittering eyes. Shirou would never walk with him to look at the nuts – _his blood boiled, searing through his veins, boiling his heart –_ nor would they ever journey through the forests together, re-enacting some ancient epic, filled with love and life and family and adventure.

They would never meet, his child by blood and his miracle child – _molten iron caressed his nerves, body erupting in pain, pain and hate and pain and hate and pain and_ _ **hatehatehatehate**_ – and he felt a part of him die at the thought.

He hated Acht. He would tear him limb from limb, bathe in his blood, string him up by his own intestines. He would grind his bones underfoot, cut out his silver tongue, whip him till he was more blood than man. He would gouge out his eyes, rip out his treacherous heart, he…

"Here,"

Kiritsugu blinked, head pounding, feeling sick and _wrong._

Shirou was peering at him, eyes glimmering with something the Magus Killer couldn't quite place. A small hand was cradling a mug, the vanilla ceramic dwarfing it in size, a faint mist drifting heavenwards from the warm, soothing cup of tea.

The child smiled a strange half smile, the kind of smile that looked brittle and fragile, looking more aged than any child had the right to be. But it was a smile that showed that he was trying, that he was practicing to be happy.

Kiritsugu felt his own face twisting into the very same mockery of a smile.

"Thanks," he grunted, accepting the drink for what it was, trying his best to not let the pain – _head pounding, chaotic beats drumming the inside of his head, drawing him one more step to madness –_ show on his face.

Avalon's sheathe looked as if he wanted to say something, before he thought against it. His head was inclined eastwards, cocked oddly, as if he was listening to something that only he could hear.

"Aspirin?" Shirou asked, the words falling oddly, as if he was both asking if he wanted aspirin and just what aspirin was.

Kiritsugu only nodded, watching the boy with a keen gaze, the Magus Killer looking more predator than human. It was one of those moments that he knew _something_ had happened, but for the life of him he couldn't place what. Despite the curse in his magic circuits – _cancerous black bubbled in his core, violently corroding his magical crest –_ he could not sense any hint of magic, or that the boy was practicing magecraft when told not to.

The tormented man just sighed, giving up. He halfheartedly followed the child with one eye, sipping the bitter liquid quietly.

It tasted like ash on his tongue, the tea feeling like sandpaper on his raw throat. It tasted of broken promises, of family he would never see. It tasted like a young girl on Alimango, dead and dying and living all at once with eyes of crimson and words of death on both tongue and heart. It tasted like gunpowder, of pain and bone, of the war that gave him everything and took it all away.

It tasted like Irisviel, of sorrows and regrets and wishes of what could have been.

"So," Shirou stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"

It remained unsaid. Kiritsugu's rapidly declining health was the Emiya household's worst kept secret, everyone with eyes capable of seeing the man's degradation. How on Earth Shirou had figured it out was beyond him, the boy announcing it one day, staring _through_ him rather than _at_ him.

That wasn't to say that he didn't have theories; because he had _many_ theories. At first, he had assumed that it was some sort of fanciful dream, a fantasy crafted by a boy who wasn't quite _right_. It was only a small cold then, a very faint weakness that was attributed to illness and fatigue. But when the physical effects started, he started to think more heavily into it.

Shirou must have been influenced by the corrupted Grail more than he thought.

What that meant, however, he didn't want to dwell on.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked about Magecraft yet." Gruff, Kiritsugu accepted the tablets – _circuits burning, thrumming painfully under his skin –_ gulping them down dry. "Normally, that's the first thing you ask in the morning."

"It's im-prag-ti-cul and boring," the boy's clumsy tongue fumbled with the word, quoting something that Kiritsugu had said to him before.

"Impractical." He sipped his tea thoughtfully, correcting the boy; the warm liquid bringing some colour back to his skin, making the man look less gaunt and more haggard, tired. "It's a shame you think like that. I was thinking of starting to teach you as well…"

Spine ramrod, the child snapped to attention, puffing up slightly. "I do!"

He stopped, mouth wide, shoulders slumping as he realised he had just given the charade away.

"Thought so," Kiritsugu frowned, staring at his child reproachfully, features marble, "what have I said about lying?"

"Not to do it…" The red-head _pouted_ , probably in an attempt at some forceful scowl, in the end only managing to look like a wounded kitten.

"And what did I say liars were?"

Solemnly, and with the sort of confidence that only children could wield, Shirou replied, "That they were bad guys and bad guys get stopped by the good guys, so I shouldn't lie or I won't be a hero."

The rose-tinted idealism wasn't lost on either of them.

The distorted _not-man_ smiled. "Exactly."

With that very same grimace of a smile on his face, Kiritsugu stumbled to his feet: his limbs protesting weakly, tired and worn. Shirou remained where he was, eyes guarded, only watching as the shambling corpse of a man struggled with his own weakness. It was a charade they'd both like to keep up, if only a little while longer.

"Raiga wanted us to visit, and Taiga was asking after you, saying something about Torashinai wanting to meet new blood."

The 'new blood' in question just blinked, "We're going now?"

Urging the child out the doorway – who was dressed in a plain white shirt and beige shorts, perfect for the warm sunny weather outside – he carefully schooled his features into stone. "We are. Get your shoes on."

Shirou bounced into action, scooping up his shoes by the doorway, feet slapping against the wooden floor as he ran.

Maybe, if they were lucky, the façade will replace the real, and this tale wouldn't be a tragedy.

* * *

 _ **The father struggled. But, he knew better than anyone: all legends are tragedies.**_

* * *

One day, the snow fairy turned to the glass child (clear and transparent, but ready to be filled), and asked if he wanted to learn magic.

The child remained quiet, only nodding in response. He sat cross-legged on the cold, wooden floor of his room, the two of them drenched in darkness. There was something inherently wrong, the child felt, in what they were doing: like they weren't supposed to be doing this, like it wouldn't be what the _not-man_ wanted.

The doll just giggled away any concerns, and, the boy supposed, that was that.

After all, she had said, nobody knows Kiri as well as I do.

Silently, the child pondered the truth in that statement, and whether anyone really knew the man at all. But, it didn't really matter, so he poured all his attention onto what he was learning.

Magic – no, not magic, _Magecraft_ – was odd, for lack of a better word. It was all numbers and letters and equations, addition and subtraction and multiplication, and it all seemed far more complicated than it had to be. It would be far more 'prag-ti-gal' to use a lighter for fire, or phone to talk to people, instead of long lines of complex 'al-gore-if-ems': it all seemed like too much effort for too little reward.

All in all, it didn't seem like the magic he had read so much about in stories, and the boy said as much.

Her face twisted, as if she had bitten a lemon, and the red-head wondered if that was the wrong thing to say. Conversations were odd, he had found, and it was very hard to say the right things and act the right way.

Regardless, they moved on, to talk of 'crests' and 'elements' and 'origins'. It was all very complex and wordy, and if he was being honest with himself, he really didn't understand half the things that were being said. He didn't quite understand what she meant by incarnation, nor did he understand what it meant to have an origin.

He knew what it meant, just not what it _meant_ : what did it mean to have an origin of fire? Of water? Did it mean that they were born of fire, that they lived their lives in sparks and embers? If they had an origin of air, did it mean that they danced with the wind, forever moving, never finding home?

The snow fairy laughed, the sound reminiscent of funeral bells, and explained it more clearly.

Origins aren't origins, the child learned. They're just manifestations that define people, which can guide your actions. It's like having a little voice in your subconscious that says 'you should do this' or 'let's do that' – everyone has one, even those who are unable to use mana, and both herself and Shirou were no different.

He found out that her origin was Wish, her element Light, and her sorcery trait Wish Granting.

He asked her then, what his origin was.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

 _ **The doll told the boy she didn't know, and life moved on.**_

* * *

To be a magus was to walk with death, and no-one knew that quite as well as Irisviel.

Death had been a concept she had known well, that ever-hanging axe, and Irisviel was _created_ (in those bitter moments, she wonders, pondering what _could_ have been, _should_ have been, if she was human instead of doll) with a more intimate knowledge of Death then one should have. It was the _curse_ of being not just an Einzbern homunculi, but a Justica model, whose first memory was not love or happiness but _Death._

She smiled, a small, brittle thing, more glass than iron.

Irisviel could see it, even now. She saw it in the plants, in the sky, in herself. Not even Kerry was safe, the malignant cancer visible to her own eyes, the _darkness_ and the _hate_ seeping through every nerve in his body. It sizzled and hissed, broiling uncontrollably, and it pained her to see her hero decay: unable to do anything to help, forced to be the silent observer.

In the end, all she could do was stay nearby, gravitating and orbiting around the two; looking after them as best she could. The old, fractured man and the young, cracked child: two distortions playing at being human. They were a _not-quite_ family, a puzzle missing a few of its pieces, and the mother thought of her child.

In a quiet moment, when they all slept, she had tried to visit her. Tried to get to her, to see her again. But each and every time she'd fail, feeling her own body break down, drifting off. Her prana would dwindle, like a Servant without a Master, and she was never able to go far before fading.

All homunculi carried some fragment of the Third, the potential to manifest the soul, but that small shard was nothing compared to the real thing. Shirou fit his name well, his prana a blinding white, dense and thick despite his weak circuits. Her own power – more egg white, more vanilla – felt dwarfed by it, despite the fact that her own circuit count was innumerable, her potential power out-put almost limitless.

The Master had become the Servant. It was almost ironic; she drew power from Shirou, whose own abysmal prana output was backed by the properties of the Third, just as Saber had once done from her, from _them_.

The engine hummed softly, the three of them in Kerry's car. Shirou and Kerry were talking to each other, voices soft, about this and that: good guys and bad guys, and all of that stuff that Kerry pretends not to like. The boy had gravitated to the idealism, to the 'save everyone' mentality, and whilst Kerry was oblivious to it all she could see it clear as day. Emiya Shirou was an odd mixture of mannerisms, a combination of both herself and Kerry, a clean slate that had painted an image of both of them upon its surface, cherry picking the traits that he felt fit him the best.

Irisviel mourned for the boy that once was, for her own inability to do anything, to the death of her loved one. She mourned for her daughter, left in the hands of Acht.

Irisviel mourned, and mourned, her hollow smile a weak defence.

She turned her head west, chin resting on her hand, the light of the sun passing through her. The boy her thoughts revolved around was in a deep conversation with the man her heart died for, talking about the latest T.V show (or cartoon, but the last time she said this the child had muttered that it was an 'adult show for adults', not a 'baby cartoon').

Her husband nodded along thoughtfully, tossing out the occasional comment about a 'Birdman' or 'Superwoman', and other characters from his youth.

A small hand reached for hers, tan hands overlaid with her own.

Irisviel wished they belonged to someone paler, with amethystine eyes instead of amber, and hated herself for it.

She whispered to Shirou, about a _not-king_ with all the burdens in the world and a man with the dreaming heart, and how they were her favourite heroes.

* * *

 _ **Though perhaps, the snow fairy thought, her greatest light would be her child.**_

* * *

The lesson began as any other, under the secrecy of the stars.

They would talk of Magecraft, of thaumaturgy and mysteries and everything in between, a brief background of it all. The fairy would ask questions, about everything and anything, and he would answer them as best he can. He would recite the five elements (she even made a mnemonic to make it easier for him to remember, 'the Educated View the Angelic Feel War'), tell her what he knew about incarnations and origins, and he even recited to the woman her own sorcery trait.

Each and every time he got something right, she would clap happily: every time he made a mistake, she would fix it. They did this often, until the mistakes dwindled and the successes poured forth, and just as he was prepared to do it all over again she asked him if he knew about True Magic.

Magecraft, the boy corrected sternly, True Magecraft.

She poked her tongue out mischievously, before laughing, repeating her words again.

There were five. Five wondrous, magnificent Magics, spells and powers that trespass on the authority of the gods, gifted to only those that turn their back on Akasha. Alone in their power, peerless and immense, they were powers that normal magi were unable to replicate, and forever distant from those without magic.

Most had lost their true name, but, she supposed she would make do.

The First was the first to lose its name, the passing of its owner making it fade from the annals of history, and allowed for the phenomena known only as the 'Denial of Nothingness': creating and duplicating and erasing over and over and over. Its owner had died, long ago, but its power still influenced this world.

The Second, whilst not losing its name, was known only by its wielder. Everyone called it the Kaleidoscope, and its authority was the 'operation of parallel worlds'. The specifics were a closely guarded secret, with only the Tohsaka privy to a few of its mysteries, but she warned that if he was ever approached by Zelretch, to leave as quickly as possible.

He was a snake, poisonous and treacherous, and wasn't to be trusted: the Einzbern knew this as fact.

The Third was by far the most beautiful, her eyes taking on a sense of wonderment. It was the 'materialisation of the soul', the authority of the heart, and it was the one miracle that her family coveted. It was their heritage, their possession, and it was the goal of all Einzbern to return that magic to the world.

Heaven's Feel was its name, and the child was oblivious to the odd, almost possessive glint in her eyes as she looked at him.

The Fourth, and the Fifth, were alien to the doll, having no knowledge on either of them. She just knew, like all magus knew, that they existed somewhere, and that they still influenced the world.

She finished her lecture of with a flourish, wire thin strands cascading down her shoulders as she tilted her head, poking a tongue out mischievously.

Shirou blinked, before asking something that had been on his mind.

"Are you a Magician?"

* * *

 _ **She was neither, she told him. She was a Homunculus, a veil.**_

* * *

"Okay, remember to smile!" Irisviel cheered, voice heard only by him.

Clad in the very same dress she _died_ in, all purple and white, Irisviel was crouched down: fretting over this and that, telling him to go make _friends_ and to not be _mean_ and to stay _safe._ She was acting like an overprotective, overbearing mother, but Shirou plastered on the _not-quite-right_ smile and weathered the storm.

If there was one thing the red-head had learned about Irisviel, was that she was a natural disaster. You couldn't fight her off – you had to work around her.

"And don't forget the three Hs." She raised her hand, lifting a finger as she recited, "Happiness, honesty, and…um…"

"Housework," Shirou finished off, nodding sagely.

Housework was an important rule, the duo had learned. All three of them were bad at it: Kiritsugu managed to cook food that could pass as chemical weaponry, Shirou was too young to have experience – though his food was becoming more and more edible the more he experimented – and Irisviel couldn't make anything by virtue of being dead.

They were by themselves in the yard, the adults inside the _house_. Shirou was under the assumption that they were bad liars who lie, because the Fujimura's lived in a small _mansion._ It was tall and imposing, walls the colour of grainy sand, and a finely manicured garden with not a blade of grass out of place. They were very clearly well off, so much so that Shirou felt almost awkward being here – him and his _father_ looking as scruffy as they come.

"I'll just be…" she fumbled, frantically looking left and right, "over there!"

Irisviel pointed at an old, wooden bench on the porch. "Just call me if you need me, okay?"

"I won't forget."

Wordlessly, she gave a thumbs up, before leaving him alone. It was just in time too, as the glass doors burst open, the Tiger of Fuyuki storming outside. The fabled Torashinai was resting against her shoulder, the bokken chipped and worn yet no less dangerous, and the small charm glinted malevolently below the bandaged hilt. It was the very first time that Shirou had seen the weapon, Raiga having banned its presence when they met up, and he couldn't help but pale at the sight of it.

Just the presence was heavy enough, the oppressive aura crushing his own, and the young boy could feel a small headache coming on.

It was unlike any bokken he had seen before, and it was the first time that he remembered feeling anything from a weapon.

The small charm jingled as she walked, the cartoonish image of a cat bouncing merrily, in complete opposition to the bloodlust it spewed.

"Shirouuuuuuuuuuuuu," Taiga leaned close, noses almost touching, "what you doinnggggggggg?"

Shirou plastered on a smile, leaning as far back as he could without sending the teenager off in a rampage. He wanted to stay as far away as possible from the _danger_ he was sensing.

"Nothing, Fujimura-san." Shirou said.

"Shirouuuuuuuu." She whined, waving the weapon around like a stick. "What have I said about the san!? The only san I want to see is if it is in nee-san – Fuji-neesan."

"Sorry, Fujimura-san." Shirou bowed low.

Taiga huffed. "Sometimes I think you don't love me…where did I go wrong in raising you? It seems like just yesterday we were in the fields, you, Emiya-san and me, as you practiced with Torashinai…"

And then she was off in her own little fantasy world, making up strange and entirely false events to satisfy her odd world view. Taiga, much to the amusement of Irisviel (and that's putting it lightly), had developed an odd pseudo-crush on the old magus; Shirou had absolutely no idea where _that_ came from, but accepted it regardless.

"Fujimura-san," he studiously ignored the downtrodden look on her face, more than used to it by now, "why did you ask after me? Do you need something?"

"Yes," shameless, she forced the bokken into his face, the wood dangerously close to taking out an eye. "You're going to be my test subject."

"Test…subject?" Shirou tasted the words carefully.

"Yep," thankfully, she removed Torashinai from his face, "so, like, Aragaki-kun – he's a grumpy guy who likes cooking – was saying at school the other day that I couldn't teach anybody to save my life. Naturally, I had to show him the error of his ways."

That dawning sense of realisation was slowly creeping up on him, heavy and terrifying, and he prayed to any deity that was listening that it wasn't to be.

"So I, your precious Fuji-nee, will be teaching you kendo." Taiga cheered, thumbs up, posing like a character from one of those Super Sentai shows – hands raised, pointing to the sky. "You can thank me later on in life, when you are a super kendo star, and when I'm old and grey you can feed me tangerines…"

Shirou remained silent, watching the girl cautiously, as if she was a rabid beast on the loose. Maybe, if he made no sudden movements, she'd go away: like a T-Rex. Irisviel had said to just nod and say yes when in this sort of situation, but did he really want to be taught by Fujimura…with Torashinai?

A thrum of _something_ flashed through the bokken, as if sensing his thoughts, and Shirou couldn't hide his wince.

"Hey, what was _that_ look for?" Unfortunately for him, Fujimura saw the grimace. "I'll have you know that I'm a brilliant teacher. The _best._ You should be grateful I'm even teaching you anything, taking time out of my busy life to helping the youth of today flourish…"

Her tone dropped, tinged with melancholy, and Shirou could almost see her ears droop – like a cat. "How could my Shirou-kun possibly be this mean to me…guess like I'll have to tell daddy and Emiya-san that you're being mean again."

Peripherally, as if sensing trouble, he could see Irisviel looking at him reproachfully: as if asking why there was a crying girl in front of him. Her eyes would flicker every now and again, jumping from him, to the weapon the girl wielded, then back to him: and something told him that she could also feel the oppressive aura spewing from the wood.

Something told him that smiling wouldn't get out of this.

Precariously, the Sword of Damocles teetered over his head, and he couldn't help but feel he was going to regret this.

"…Okay, Fujimura-san."

She cheered, immediately dropping the crocodile tears, lifting the sword high into the sky in victory.

"Well, let's get started right away!" With that, she dropped into a pose: arms ajar, legs firmly planted into the ground. "Just copy my movements, okay?"

Her feet slithered through the grass, her wooden sabre carving through the air, as she began her dance. The bokken soared, the girl fighting some unseen enemy, and as she moved Shirou could _feel_ something was off. Like her movements weren't so much hers but someone else's, someone much older and much more experience, and they were made with such confidence that he knew they would hit.

Irisviel gave him a warning look, sensing something _wrong_ , but he was oblivious to it.

She stopped suddenly. "Now you do it."

"Umm…" Shirou stared, _hard._ "Don't I need a weapon or something first?"

"But you do have a weapon, though." Carelessly, she held out the hilt of her own bokken, hands gripping the wooden blade tight. "Just use Torashinai."

"If…if you're certain…" Cautiously, he reached out for the hilt, hands shaking.

He gripped it tight, hands wrapping around the warm, bandage wrapped hilt of the tool, and was filled with a sense of _rightness._ Like he was meant to use a sword, to be a sword, and with a cursory swing he smirked.

 _This_ was easy, why would he need help from someone like Taiga. She was pathetic, all teary eyes and wide smiles, sheltered in the darkness, and why would he need her? Damn why does he need anyone, he was perfect the way he was. Irisviel, Kiritsugu, they were nothing without him, would continue to be nothing, and why was he letting them hold him back?

He should be out there _fighting._ Maiming and killing, again and again and again and _again._ Bathe in the blood of his enemies, slaughter the innocent.

He was perfect, he was complete, he was _wrong_.

Innocently, the charm jingled.

Shirou blacked out.

* * *

 _ **The prideful cat smiled, all fang and hate, and lured the child to his lair.**_

* * *

When Shirou next woke up, he was _somewhere_ infinitely familiar and infinitely alien, on a mountain that _wasn't_ yet _was_ and below a night sky.

For the first time he could remember, he was _alone_.

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1, Complete.**_

 **So this happened. Evil Cliffhanger is evil, however, we get to see the very first spirit next time, and isn't that going to be fun. I've listed up all the suggestions so far: I'll have to do some crazy Thaumaturgy to get F/GO info on some of them but I should manage.**

 **Once more, special thanks to Icarus Ascendant for doing the thing. :D**

 **Anyway, yeah, the angst in this chapter is a thing. But Character Development is super important, and we see relationship stuff, so it isn't a massive mess. You get a cookie if you can see the triangle, and maybe one if you guess the spirit.**

 **Spoilers (read Backwards): ianihsaroT**

 **Regardless, hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I hope to see you all again next time. Remember, any questions, don't be afraid to ask :D.**

 **Signed,** **Waterscape.**


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